


A Low And Distant Sound

by howdyspacebuddy (eigengrau)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Family Feels, Fluff and Smut, Post-Season/Series 01, Romantically Awkward Adults, Sexual Content, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7801864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eigengrau/pseuds/howdyspacebuddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joyce yanks open the door. Hopper stands on the threshold. He’s holding something, a small cube wrapped sloppily in newspaper.</p><p>“I saw it in a shop,” he says, by way of explanation, shoving it towards her. “I figured… it was Christmas.”</p><p>“A month ago,” Joyce says. Then; “What is it?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Low And Distant Sound

Hopper shows up when she’s in the middle of cooking dinner. Well. Attempting to cook dinner. Joyce has already fought a losing battle against her potato peeler, which is older then Jonathan, and the ground beef that she’s trying to form into meatloaf is putting up a formidable struggle against her best efforts to make it look appetizing. She swears at the sound of a knock on the door and pushes her hair out of her face as she crosses the room.

She yanks open the door. Hopper stands on the threshold. He’s holding something, a small cube wrapped sloppily in newspaper.

“I saw it in a shop,” he says, by way of explanation, shoving it towards her. “I figured… it was Christmas.”

“A month ago,” Joyce says. Then; “What is it?”

Hop looks almost embarrassed. “A bell. For, uh. For Will’s bike.”

He knows that the bike has finally been moved out of the place where it’s been sequestered in the shed. That Will’s thrown a leg over and declared the desire to ride it again. That Joyce has, reluctantly, allowed him that.

Will needs to feel like things are going back to normal, though they all know that “normal” is not a thing that exists anymore. Joyce respects that, even if the thought makes her feel like her chest is about to cave in on itself like a collapsing mine. She knows that Hop gets that.

Joyce takes the box and shakes it. Sure enough, it jingles inside the wrapping paper.

“Do you want to come in? It’s freezing out here.”

Hop takes a step over the threshold. It’s going to snow, she can smell it, one of those icy late January frosts that leaves little crystal blossoms on the corners of the windows and makes car engines stall before they turn over. Joyce has always liked winter. Lonnie had seen it as something to get past, to wait out, long and cold and barely tolerated, but she likes the snow, the clean smell of ice and the contrast between blue sky and white woods. The way that it makes home cozy and safe. When she closes the door behind Hopper, watching him look around the room out of the corner of her eye, she relishes the cool air that clings to his jacket.

Joyce sets the present on the counter, making a mental note to give it to Will when he gets home. The boys are at the Wheeler’s house, per their usual Friday night habits, Will camped out in the basement with his gang of wizards and warriors and Jonathan upstairs with Nancy and Steve. He claims that the three of them watch movies or listen to music. Joyce has her doubts, but he seems happy, so she doesn’t push. She settles with her back against the counter and eyes Hopper as he takes off his hat, fingertips absently rubbing against the brim. She has to crane her neck a little to look up at him.

“Is everything okay?”

He nods. “Fine. Normal.” She knows that ‘normal’ means ‘boring,’ the translation automatic in her head. “Phil Larson’s garden gnomes finally showed up this morning.”

“Yeah?” Joyce cocks her head. “Where?”

“In the Nativity scene on the lawn of First Methodist.”

She laughs. “Seriously?”

Hopper shrugs and cracks a smile. It looks good on him. “I guess someone thought Mary and Baby Jesus would look a lot better if they had beards and little pointy hats.”

“Well, that’s one mystery solved.” She grins. Her pack of Camels is lying on the counter by the breadbox and she pulls two out, offering one to Hopper. He takes it, and she lights them both.

“How’re the boys?” He asks, like he wasn’t just here a few days ago, showing up conveniently when Jonathan and Joyce were clearing out a clogged gutter and offering a hand.

“Good,” Joyce says automatically. There’s a second where Hop raises his eyebrows, where she remembers that she can be more honest with him than with her co-workers, or Will’s friend’s parents. “Better,” she concedes. “He’s sleeping through the night now.”

“Still having the nightmares?”

Joyce nods. For a second her throat is tight, but she takes a drag on the cigarette to hide it. “Not as many.”

“That’s good.” Hop doesn’t ask if she has nightmares, and she doesn’t ask about his. Neither of them need to. “Better.”

She tries to smile, but it’s weak, and she can feel her eyes start to sting. Damn it, she wants to shout at herself, don’t be so weepy, so goddamn predictable. A tear squeezes its way out despite her best efforts, and she groans, throwing her gaze to the ceiling.

“Hey, hey,” Hopper says, and lays a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t—don’t cry, Joyce.”

“Sorry,” she squeezes the bridge of her nose, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to—I don’t know where this is coming from, things are okay, I have no reason to be....” she trails off. His fingers tighten against her skin reassuringly.

“It’s okay,” He says, and she believes him. He kneads her shoulder, and it’s like a knot releases in the tight joint of her back, relaxing. He pauses for a second before looking down at her face. “You’re a good mom.”

Joyce sniffs and wipes at one eye roughly with her knuckles. “Thanks.”

Hopper ducks his chin, a little awkward, acknowledging. Her cigarette is wasting away, and she taps the tip into the ashtray on the counter. “You’re a good cop.” He quirks the corner of his lip in the ghost of a smile, and she pushes, “You’re a good man, Hopper.”

The smile morphs into a grimace, and Joyce could just punch herself. “I don’t know about that,” he mutters, and just like that the guard is back up, the door slammed shut. His hand leaves her shoulder. Hopper abandons fidgeting with his hat and puts it on. The conversation, if you could really call it that, is over.

“I’m making meatloaf,” Joyce says, almost pleading, one last attempt at… whatever. She gestures vaguely to the metal mixing bowl, the raw meat and spices sitting inside where she’s halfway through wooden-spooning the ingredients into submission. “You could stay. For dinner. I mean, if you want—”

“No,” Hopper blurts out, and then, embarrassed, “I’ve actually… I’ve got a. Thing.”

“Hot date?” Joyce jokes, and instantly regrets it. Hopper, for his part, averts his gaze to the ceiling.

“Uh,” he says, and Joyce waves her hands in front of her face.

“Sorry, sorry,” she babbles, “don’t let me keep you, really, I’m just… thanks for the bell. I’m sure Will’s gonna love it.”

Hopper nods. “Tell him to be careful,” he says, though the both of them know that Will is the last person who needs that reminder. Joyce understands. It feels like a danger to leave things like that unsaid these days, like the silence could put a jinx on him, a curse. Will doesn’t leave the house—for school, for Dungeons and Dragons night at Mike’s, for the goddamn backyard—without getting a, “Stay safe, I love you,” from Joyce or Jonathan. It’s silly, really, would look weird to anyone else, but—

Better safe than sorry.

“I will,” Joyce says.

There’s a crunch of gravel from outside and the beam of headlights sweeps in through the windows. A car door slams, and voices drift in from the snowy air, young, chattering amiably.

“That’ll be them.” Her gaze falls to the unfinished meatloaf. “Oh, damn it,” she mutters absently, “This was supposed to be in the oven already—”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Hopper says, heading out of the kitchen like it’s his cue. Exit police chief, stage left. The front door swings open just as he reaches it, and Jonathan and Will, dressed in their second-hand puffy winter coats, nearly crash right into him.

Will stares up at Hopper, and Hopper stares back. The threat of hero worship clearly makes him want to run for the hills. Joyce is pretty sure that Will, always the sensitive one, can sort of tell.

Will coughs. “Hi, sir.”

“Hey, kid,” Hopper grunts as Jonathan shepherds his brother inside. A gust of January air blows ice crystals inside, and the kids’ boots track snow in with them. Joyce raises the wooden spoon and points to the carpet.

“Ah ah! Wipe your shoes!”

“Sorry, mom,” they say in unison, sibling reflex, voices overlapping. The door clicks shut, and when Joyce looks up from the puddles of melted snow that her sons are leaving on the floor, Hopper is gone.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later the whole house smells like food and the meatloaf is cooling on top of the stove. Will tears open his present, eyes shining as he rings the bell experimentally. The glittering aluminum half-dome sits next to him on the kitchen table where he’s bent over his homework as Jonathan sets the cutlery around him. Joyce leans against the counter and watches them, and for a second she is weirdly conscious of… everything. She’s overwhelmed with the normal-ness of this, of her boys tracking dirt into the house, of dinner on the table, of a nagging draft. They’ve been here before, done this before. This is average.

How strange, she thinks, that average almost feels like an anomaly these days.

Jonathan taps Will on the shoulder and he leaps up, gathering his textbooks into his arms. “Sorry,” he blurts, “dinner?”

“Five minutes.” Joyce hears herself say.

Will nods. “Cool,” he says, and shifts the pile of papers onto the couch. “I’m gonna wash my hands.”

The egg timer dings, and Joyce snaps out of it. Reaching for the meatloaf, she burns her fingertips on the casserole dish and swears.

“Mom?” Jonathan asks, touching her lightly on the elbow, “You okay?”

She nods and turns the tap on, running her reddening fingers under the cool water. “Be careful, it’s hot.”

“I’ll get it,” he says, grabbing a dishtowel to use as a potholder.

Will bounds back into the room, drying his palms on his jeans, and the three of them settle at the table. Joyce ladles a thick spoonful of potatoes onto each plate, focusing hard on not dropping any as Will launches into a re-telling of the kid’s latest campaign. Orcs are involved. Joyce doesn’t know what the hell an orc is, but she nods along anyway.

There’s a knock on the front door, and Will breaks off, all three of them startled by the interruption.

Another knock, more tentative this time. Joyce drops the spoon back into the bowl. “One sec!” She calls as she crosses the room. Her heart is beating fast, and she isn’t sure why. She twists the doorknob, yanks.

Hopper stands on the porch, the smell of cigarettes and ozone clinging to him from the chill outside. He shifts his weight, looking down at her awkwardly. “Um,” he says. “I finished the thing I had to do.” He looks like he’s getting ready to bolt, regretting coming back. He looks nervous.

“So, it wasn’t a date, huh?” Joyce asks lamely.

But it makes him crack a smile. “Nah,” he says. And then, sniffing, “Smells good in there.”

“Yeah, the meatloaf is almost edible if you cover it with ketchup.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I’m really not,” Joyce says, “I’ll get you a plate.”

And so here Hopper is, sitting at her kitchen table, wolfing down mashed potatoes. He’s sitting in Lonnie’s chair—though it hasn’t been Lonnie’s Chair™ for at least a year and a half, now—and, despite admitting that yeah, it’s a little dry, a little bland, he’s already devoured the meatloaf. Joyce wonders when the last time he had a meal that wasn’t pre-packaged, frozen, or served in a diner was. Not that she’s any kind of good cook—Jonathan seems to be the only one to have gotten the culinary gene that was present in neither her nor her ex-husband, and he’s mostly limited to eggs and the occasional pancake—but, you know. It’s the principle of the thing.

Jonathan has clammed up, eyeing Hopper from across the table, but Will fills the silence, still chattering about orcs and dwarves and twelve-sided dice. Hopper looks just as clueless about the whole thing as Joyce is, but every few minutes he’ll ask a question—“Wait, so who’s an elf?”—or nod when Will describes a pitched battle against necromancers or goblins. By the time Jonathan is gathering up empty plates and piling them in the sink, Will is explaining the difference between orcs and golems and Hopper is following along with interest, if not much comprehension.

The clock hits nine thirty, and Will lets out a yawn that could rattle windows. “I gotta go to bed,” he says reluctantly. He tires out easily these days, and a full schedule of school on top of a multi-hour stint of basement adventuring is showing in the bags under his eyes. “Maybe I could show you how to make a character some time?” He asks Hopper, his voice hopeful. It’s the same way that he’d asked Lonnie to read a comic book he likes, or to watch a movie with him on TV, and it makes Joyce ache with sympathetic disappointment, knowing that he’s bracing himself for rejection already.

But Hopper nods. “Sure, kid,” he says, and it sounds like he means it.

A grin breaks over Will’s face. “I think you’d be a ranger,” he blurts out. Joyce sees Jonathan smile where he’s standing at the edge of the hall, preparing to retreat to his room and the comfort of his stereo.

“Ranger sounds pretty cool,” Hopper says. “I should probably get going, though, I don’t want to keep you guys up.”

Will jumps to his feet as Hopper stands. “Have a good night, sir,” he says, as Hopper reaches for his hat where he’s left it resting on the counter, “and thank you for the bell, it’s really awesome.”

Hop makes a face, but there’s softness behind it. “You really don’t have to call me that,” he mutters, watching the kid duck out of the kitchen.

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth!” Joyce calls as her boys disappear behind the closed doors of their bedrooms, more to the ether than to either of them. She gets to her feet as Hop shrugs on his jacket. “Neither of them are gonna brush their teeth.”

“Yeah, no.” Hop shakes his head indulgently. “They’re not.”

Joyce watches him get ready to leave. “There are some leftovers,” she says, gesturing to the corner of meatloaf left in the casserole dish, the end of the potatoes. “I can throw some in a Tupperware, if you want.”

“I already stole a meal from you, Joyce, I’m not gonna take more of your food.”

“It’s not stealing,” she says. Food is expensive—she knows he knows that. Joyce has never felt self-conscious about her lack of money, never felt like she’s got “POOR” emblazoned in the middle of her forehead, though she’s aware that it’s how some people see her and her family. It’s always been like that. And she wouldn’t offer the food if she needed it that desperately. She’s not stupid. Hopper doesn’t understand that, solidly middle class through life despite the radical highs and lows that he’s ended up in.

“This was nice,” he says, genuine. “Seriously, thanks.”

“Yeah,” Joyce says. She wants to tell him to stop by more often, that he should spend more time here and not in his deeply depressing trailer, but she’s pushed far enough, and she wants this night to end well and not with another awkward killing of the mood. It _has_ been nice. “Thanks again for the present, I know Will appreciates it.”

“’Course.”

The wind whistles loudly outside the window, pulling both of their attention. Hop has already pulled a cigarette from the breast pocket of his jacket and it dangles, unlit, from his lip as they cross to the window. Joyce pulls back the curtain and squints out.

“Jesus,” she mutters, watching the snow whip against the glass. White blankets the woods around the house, the driveway disappearing underneath it. “You can’t go out in that.”

“It’s not that far back to my place,” Hopper protests. Joyce snorts.

“I’m not letting you drive in a blizzard.”

“Come on, it’s not that bad—”

A door opens, and Jonathan sticks his head out into the hallway. The soft sound of the radio drifts out of his room. “Hey, guys? They’re saying on WFYI there’s a winter storm warning for the next seven hours.”

Joyce shoots Hopper a look and heads to the linen closet. “You’re staying over. I’ll make the couch up, I’ve got extra pillows around here somewhere.”

* * *

Once everyone is settled in for the night, Jonathan and Will in their rooms and Hopper installed on the couch under at least three blankets, Joyce realizes that she can’t sleep. She lies in bed, face washed, teeth brushed, changed into her pajamas, and stares at the ceiling with her mind running a hundred miles an hour. The lights are off and the storm outside has blocked out the moon, and the dimness feels almost like a shield when she slips out from under the covers and pads out into the hallway.

She knows her way from the bedroom to the kitchen even in the dark, the route memorized from trips to get a late-night glass of water or to sit alone and smoke a cigarette at the counter in the small hours of the morning. Still, she’s conscious of every creak of the floorboards under the carpet as she makes her way to the front room and clears her throat.

The lump on her couch stirs, and Joyce shifts her weight from foot to foot. She feels stupid, suddenly, in her sweatpants and too-big t-shirt, standing in her living room like a fourteen year-old at a sleepover. Hop blinks at her through the darkness. He clearly hasn’t fallen asleep yet, comically large on the sofa. The springs squeak when he rises up on his elbows.

“Joyce?” he asks, voice pitched low.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” she says.

There’s a moment of charged silence. And then: “Yeah, but I’ll have to be back here in the morning unless you really wanna freak out your kids.”

A laugh bursts out of her without warning, and she slaps a hand over her mouth, the sound a surprise. “Oh, shit,” she mumbles, and then as he rises to his feet, leaving the blanket on the floor, “Okay.”

He follows her down the hallway and, to his credit, only trips over the carpet once. Her bedroom door creaks as he closes it behind them, and she flicks on the bedside table lamp, more to avoid bumping into anything than for the actual illumination.

Still. She turns and looks at him. The warm light seems to counteract the draft that comes in through the window, the palpable presence of snow and wind even through glass and drawn curtains. He looks softer, here, vulnerable in jeans and a henley. There’s a hole just under the collar, a tiny tear in the fabric. She finds her eyes being drawn to it. Neither of them, she realizes, wants to make a move.

“Nice room,” Hopper offers.

“Thanks,” Joyce says. “You sleep with your jeans on?”

“Sometimes.” He looks around. “You sure about this?”

“I’m not going to leave you to freeze, there’s a giant hole in the wall of my living room.” They both know that’s not why she’s asked him in. They pretend that they don’t.

Hopper’s hands go to his fly, and Joyce tries hard not to stare as he strips out of his jeans. His boxers are plaid. Jesus. “I could fix that,” he says, awkwardly, like he isn’t taking his pants off in front of her and it’s just an average Friday.

They’d dated briefly, back in high school. Joyce and Lonnie’s on-again off-again relationship had been going through an off phase, and Hopper had just been dumped by Chrissie Carpenter and Marcie Deacons in quick succession—both members of the cheer squad, both blonde. She had wanted to make Lonnie jealous; maybe Hopper had wanted a brunette to break his streak of bad luck. Or maybe he had heard that she would put out. In the end, not much happened—a couple of hasty make outs at a party a friend of Jim’s held when his parents went out of town, and he got a hand up her shirt one time. But Lonnie had (predictably) threatened to key Hop’s car, leading to an abortive parking lot fight where Lonnie’s nose (predictably) got broken, and that pretty much ended that. Their contact after graduation had been sporadic, and then non-existent once Hopper moved to the city, and then awkward when he had retreated back to Hawkins, each of them harboring their personalized miseries.

Twenty years give or take, and more than once Joyce has wondered how her life could have taken a different path. But no Lonnie, as much as she regrets wasting most of her adult life on him, would have meant no Jonathan, no Will, and that is not a bearable thought.

Joyce sits down on the bed and Hopper follows, the mattress creaking under his unfamiliar weight. It feels like they’re back in high school, suddenly shy. Like they both haven’t been married, divorced, had children, lost children—everything in the interim. The space between them seems to hum.

“Joyce…” he says, and she kisses him. He kisses back like he’s hungry for it, like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to. He presses her back against the covers, the natural gravity of their bodies, until she’s lying flat on her back and he’s looming above her. He hovers, gaze flicking between her mouth and her eyes. “You sure about this?” He murmurs.

She pulls him down and licks the question from inside his mouth.

The weight of him on top of her anchors Joyce in a way she hasn’t felt in a long time. He’s strong and broad, and his big hands hold her like she’s made of something to be handled carefully but firmly. He’s gentle, but he isn’t tentative. Of course, they’ve both been waiting a long time for this. Dancing around each other.

When they break apart to shuck off their respective shirts he stares at the creamy expanse of her skin, pocked with old scars and silvery stretch marks, and she honestly hasn’t expected the lust she can see in his eyes. He pushes her up against the pillows, palms pressed against her breasts, her belly, like he can’t touch her enough. When one of his hands hooks over the waistband of her sweatpants, she helps him, kicking them off down her legs.

Hop kisses the corner of her jaw, the soft skin under her ear, and she laughs. Partly because it tickles, but partly because she’s lying in her bedroom in her drafty house and making out with her one-time high school hook-up, and this should feel odd and absurd but instead it just feels right. Like the natural progression of things.

Hopper pulls back and raises one eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”

Joyce smiles and taps him on the bare shoulder. “This. Everything.”

He grins, fingers skimming across her side. She shivers pleasantly. “You know, when I asked you out in the eleventh grade, I didn’t think it’d take me this long to get to second base with you.”

She smacks him on the chest and lets him get her underwear off before self-consciousness and the cold air from the poorly-sealed window finally get to her. She presses up against him, chest-to-chest, letting him slip his hands around to the small of her back, holding her up. “Can we get under the covers?” She asks, and by way of response he yanks the patched duvet from the foot of the bed and draws it over them.

It’s under the blanket that they finally shift together, Hopper at her back, her body fitting against the curve of him. His legs tangle with hers and he presses a kiss to the back of her neck, naked skin warm where they touch. It’s been a long goddamn time since Joyce has been this close to anyone, and she has to bite down on a groan. Hopper strokes her hair away from her face.

“Good?”

She nods and he slips one hand between her legs, the other spread low on her stomach. His thumb strokes the soft inside of her thigh, infuriatingly slow, and she shoots a glare at him over her shoulder.

“C’mon,” she hisses through gritted teeth, and he laughs into her hair.

“Be patient,” he teases her. In retaliation she pushes back, and his laugh turns into a low groan. “Okay,” he mutters, and really touches her, _finally_. “Okay, I get the message.”

By the time he curls his thick fingers inside of her, Joyce is breathing raggedly, her head thrown back against Hopper’s chest. He brushes against something, that long-fabled G-spot that she’s objectively known exists (from Cosmo and other checkout line magazines that she never, ever buys) but has never quite been able to find, fingers too short, ex-husband too selfish and unimaginative. She shudders and turns her face against the pillow, muffling a gasp.

“Yeah?” Hopper whispers in her ear, and it could be goading or crass, a conscious attempt to talk dirty, but it’s not. He sounds just as surprised as she is. “There?”

She nods, bites out a soft, “ _Fuck_ ,” when he rubs his fingertips against the spot inside her. Her toes are curling, making quiet noises against the sheets as he circles his thumb over her clit, and then she’s shaking silently in his arms as she comes, his muttered “Jesus,” loud against the shell of her ear.

The blanket slips down as he pulls his fingers out of her and she rolls over to face him. He drops the hand to her hip, steadying, wet against her skin. She can feel where he’s hard against her, aching, and she wraps her legs around his waist. Closer, closer. Not close enough, yet. She shifts until she’s sitting in his lap, until he’s looking up at her with his back propped up against the pillows.

“God, you’re fucking beautiful,” he says. He’s beautiful too, but wouldn’t believe her if she said so; instead she kisses him and swallows his moans as she lowers her body, letting him ease inside her. The stretch is good, the sense of being filled. He stills when he gets all the way in, his face buried in the crook of her neck, breathing hard. He holds back.

He doesn’t need to. She isn’t going to break. Joyce is a lot of things, but she isn’t made of spun sugar.

“Come on, Hop,” she says, cupping his jaw in her hands. “Jim. Come _on_.”

“Jesus,” he groans again, and thrusts into her. Joyce has to bite down on a yelp. She arches her back, meeting him move-for-move, hands going to his shoulders to keep her balance. He’ll have half-moons on his skin tomorrow, the marks left by her nails, and her hips will have ten tender, finger-shaped bruises where he grasps her like she’ll vanish at any moment. He lifts her up and she brings herself crashing down.

Hopper sucks a mark into the skin of her throat and works a big hand between them to rub her clit and she tightens, thighs shaking where they’re pressed against his. He goes very still, a low, almost painful groan torn from his throat, and then his hips jerk once and they’re coming, together. The throb of him inside her is electric, her skin tingling all over.

* * *

Later, after Joyce has crept to the bathroom to clean up, they lie under the duvet and share a cigarette that’s tapped periodically into the green ceramic ashtray that Hop balances on his knee. Joyce has to warn Hop not to cut himself on one jagged edge—the ashtray, made by Jonathan as a passive-aggressive birthday gift for Lonnie, is held together mostly by super glue. She has refused on multiple occasions to throw it out. Hopper has one arm slung over her shoulders, almost unconsciously, and she finds herself leaning into him.

“It’s late,” she says, glancing at the bedside clock. It’s nearly two in the morning; tomorrow is a Saturday, and if the snow keeps up—and it hasn’t shown any signs of slowing—then the sunrise won’t bring any places they need to be. Hopper takes a last drag, passes the butt of the cigarette to Joyce. She takes a tiny puff and then stubs it out.

He looks down at her. “You want me to head back to the couch?”

She considers it. He should. God knows she doesn’t need to deal with having an awkward conversation about this with her sons. But it’s a conversation that they’re going to have to have eventually, and Joyce really, really doesn’t want to move right now. Doesn’t want Hopper to move.

She shakes her head. “We’ll worry about it later.”

He’s silent as she lies down, following her onto his back. When they’re both side-by-side on the mattress, under the blanket, he looks into her face. Her mouth is tender where his beard had scraped against it. She’s turned off the light, and in the darkness, she sees the man who saved her son, who was willing to believe her when she sounded crazy, to follow her into hell. But mostly she sees Jim Hopper, the guy she’s known since before she can remember. They’ve both changed a lot over the years, but maybe not so much as you would think. She rolls over and closes her eyes as he wraps his arms around her.

She waits until his breathing has evened out against her back, until she thinks he’s asleep, to repeat herself from earlier. It’s almost a sigh, a whisper, dropped into the warm quiet between them.

“You’re a good man, Hop.”

He isn’t asleep. But he doesn’t say anything—just holds her.


End file.
